


Bacchanalia

by appleseed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, PWP, Resolved Sexual Tension, no plot here, no really, not even a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleseed/pseuds/appleseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When dreams become reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bacchanalia

**Author's Note:**

> It's Cherik Tuesday, so have some smut :)

Erik dreams.

He is standing in Charles's bedroom, but it's not at all like the bedroom he knows that Charles sleeps in. Soft lighting brightens the room; the furnishings are decadent, a style akin to the rooms Erik once saw in the Palace of Versailles. Charles is asleep, stretched out in bed like a nymph captured on canvas by some master. Erik looks down at himself and realises he is wearing dark clothes, a pointed contrast to the soft pale skin of the figure in the bed.

He feels as though he is a highwayman stealing into the boudoir of a maiden.

He approaches the bed; Charles stirs in his sleep, uttering a soft groan that causes such a wealth of emotions to sprawl through Erik that he has to clench his fists to stop himself reaching out and grabbing Charles, disturbing this picture of slumber and repose. By the time he reaches the bed, his knees knocking against the side of it, he's almost sure that his fingernails are embedded in his palms, so tightly is he repressing himself.

Charles stirs again and rolls onto his side, facing Erik; the silk sheet covering him ripples and settles. His skin glows in the light of the room, but he is no maiden; the strong set of his jaw, the jut of his shoulder, the muscled arms – these are all things that Erik longs to touch.

Charles wakes slowly, delicately, as though he knows Erik is here but is in no danger from him. His vulnerability is beautiful, as beautiful as the fluid motion of his body when he sits up, the sheet gathering round his waist. His smile blooms into life; his eyes blink, making his long eyelashes open and close gently, like bat's wings fluttering in flight.

Erik is transfixed. Charles rises from the bed, the sheet falling away from his body, and reaches out a hand towards Erik, tangling in his top and insistently pulling him onto the bed. The perfect curve of Charles' lips parts when they touch his own, stealing all coherency from his thoughts. The kiss is deep and wet and filthy; Charles's tongue pushes into his mouth and he is lost - utterly, utterly lost.

Erik wakes.

*

He blinks at the ceiling for a minute, confused and frustrated. The dream had been so real, so much a representation of all the things that he wants, that he resents being awake.

Indulgence, lust, softness, pleasure – these are not things that he has ever allowed himself to feel or experience. To sink into such a thing like pleasure at the expense of everything else is dangerous. And yet, his heart is pounding, his groin is throbbing and his cock is half hard, all from a dream. What would the real thing be like?

The only way to find out, Erik's sleep-addled brain decides, is to ask.

*

He sits up and shuffles to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over it and planting his feet on the floor. He rubs at his face and takes some deep, calming breaths, feeling the sharp edge of _want_ dull down into a pleasant ache. He stands up, untangling himself from the bedsheets, and pads across the room to the doorway. He opens it and steps out into the corridor, pausing for a moment to listen; there is silence, with only the faint tick of the grandfather clock round the corner for company.

Erik crosses the corridor to the doorway of the room that is not quite opposite his and opens it quietly, helping the springs and gears of the handle along with no more effort than it takes to blink. His eyes adjust to the darkness of Charles's room; the bed is empty. The sheets are tousled and the pillows are squashed, but the light is on in the bathroom on the far side of the room. Erik listens carefully in the silence; he can water running, then it stops, followed by a pause and then a clink that might be a glass set down on porcelain.

The light in the bathroom flicks off and Charles emerges from it's depths, yawning. There is a crease down one side of his face where he's been lying on the pillow. He catches sight of Erik, frozen in front of the door, and surprise floods his face, followed swiftly by concern.

“Erik? What's wrong?”

Erik begins to realise the folly of his actions. His desire for Charles has always been buried away under layers of revenge and plans and friendship. Charles has never expressed any interest in him as anything more than a friend, or, for that matter, in anyone; for all his charm, and the stories told by Raven, Charles has been very circumspect as regards liaisons of any kind.

Erik berates himself even as Charles crosses the room to stand in front of him, a frown furrowing his brow. His blue-and-white striped pyjamas look worn and comfortable; Erik wants to stroke a hand down Charles's arm, feeling the muscle of it through warm cotton.

“Erik?”

Erik can only stare at Charles blankly, wrestling with himself. Should he tell Charles everything and come clean?

 _No_ , his mind whispers.  _That way madness lies_ .

He feels a gentle touch in his mind and before he can react, ask Charles not to read his thoughts, he is filled with the horrible knowledge that Charles has seen _everything_. He drops his head in shame and balls his hands into fists.

A smaller, warm hand wraps gently round one of his fists; a long finger slides under his chin and tilts his head upwards.

“My friend,” Charles says warmly, wonderingly. “You should have _said_.”

Erik blinks, dumbfounded. In his mind, he can feel a number of emotions being shown to him – lust, need, fear, love, all with a sharp counterpoint of pain – and recognises them as his own, as what he feels all the time, the constant spike of emotions that he keeps hidden away. Charles drops both hands to rest at his sides, and then he does something very surprising.

His eyes flick downwards, suggestively, and then look up at him through ridiculously long lashes. He gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment before saying, “perhaps we should take care of  _that_ .” His tone is suggestive and teasing.

In the oppressive silence of the room, suddenly everything becomes clear. Charles' blue, blue eyes never leave his.

Erik reaches out and wraps his hands round Charles' hipbones, pulling him close. At this proximity, Charles' beauty is dizzying, dazzling even in the darkness. Charles is smiling softly, his exhales dusting lightly over Erik's face; Erik thinks he could stay here for the rest of his life just like this. He could look at Charles forever and not get tired of the looking.

He leans down and captures Charles' mouth, a gentle, quiet prelude to more. Charles sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth and letting Erik pull that maddening lower lip into his mouth. Charles tastes of toothpaste and something else, warm and sweet that must be Charles. The kiss deepens and Erik isn't prepared for Charles' tongue to slip into his mouth, but it's intoxicating. He sucks a breath in through his nose and slides his hands round Charles' back to hold him in his arms and pull him ever closer.

Charles' hands are running through Erik's hair as they kiss, tangling in the strands occasionally and sparking off little jolts of pleasure down the back of his neck. Charles breaks off the kiss, one hand brushing down the back of his head and coming to rest at the join of his neck and shoulder. His thumb rubs slowly up and down Erik's throat.

“Come to bed,” Charles says breathily, and Erik can only hiss “ _yes_ ” in response. Charles reaches behind his back and loosens Erik's grasp, taking both of his hands in both of his own, pulling Erik with him as he walks backwards towards the bed. Once they reach it, Charles lets go of Erik's hands and doesn't even bother to unbutton his top, but simply pulls it off over his head. He yanks his bottoms off and sits on the edge of the bed, using his arms to push himself up and backwards into the middle. His eyes never leave Erik's.

Charles is lying naked in the bed, waiting for Erik to join him; the sight is  _breathtaking_ .

Erik's hands are shaking with so much repressed need that it's making his task of undressing more difficult than it should be, but he manages it, and crawls up the bed to kiss Charles again. Charles is lithe and warm in his arms; his limbs tangle round his own as their kisses turn deeper, hungrier. Pleasure and hope and love unfurls in Erik's mind; it's distinctly Charles-flavoured, with an undercurrent of longing, and Erik's heart soars. Charles  _wants_ this - wants  _him_ –  _has_ wanted him as much as Erik has, but never said.

He rolls on top of Charles, simply feeling every part of him from lips to chest to groin to thighs to knees. Charles moans and writhes underneath him, his hands clutching at Erik's back. Then Charles is on top of him, thrusting shallowly against him. Then they are on their sides, legs tangling and cocks meeting in an obscene kiss.

Charles sends him an image in his mind that's so powerful it's like a blow to the chest, stealing all the breath from his lungs more completely than any amount of kissing could. “ _Yes_ ,” he stutters, “yes.” He doesn't know if he's said it out loud or not, but it doesn't matter; Charles hears him anyway.

They settle against each other, catching their breath for a moment. Erik rests his head on the pillow, inches from Charles' face; his smile is blinding and wicked; joy radiates from him, seeping into every part of Erik and chasing away everything that isn't this moment.

This is what Erik was afraid of, the obliteration of himself, but he doesn't remember why he was so afraid. He is Erik, but not Erik; Charles has made someone new and whole. He feels bold, made reckless by the knowledge that Charles wants him as much as he wants Charles. How many nights had he lain awake struggling with his feelings, thinking that he had to choose between having Charles and not having him? Erik realises now that he had chosen Charles long before he had ever consciously thought he had to.

“Oh _love_ ,” Charles murmurs, one hand cupping Erik's face. He wriggles closer, and Erik slides one arm under Charles's head, letting it rest on his bicep. His other hand begins a slow, sensual slide across Charles's waist and back, before gliding lower; Erik can't resist giving that perfect arse a squeeze, making Charles moan softly. Erik's gaze has not left Charles' the entire time, and watching the cloud of lust and need form on his face is addicting. He lets one long finger slide between Charles' arse cheeks; it feels filthy, forbidden – wonderful.

Charles squeezes his cheeks together, trapping Erik's finger but not stopping it. The finger pushes deeper, stopping just over the puckered skin of Charles' hole. He rubs it a little, and Charles jerks. “Next time,” he gasps, “next time,” and Erik nearly chokes; there will be a  _next_ time, there will be  _more_ of this – of Charles' breath hitching, more of the flush that spreads over his chest, more of the little thrusts of his hips, more of his skin under Erik's palms, more of the hard curve of his cock.

Charles leaves off cupping Erik's face and presses his palm to Erik's mouth; Erik licks it, slowly, full of intent. Charles' eyes darken, flicking between meeting his gaze and watching the movement of Erik's tongue. Erik leans right slightly to lick at Charles' fingers; Charles slides the tips of two of them into Erik's mouth, and he goes to work on them like they're Charles' cock, sucking hard and swirling his tongue over and round them.

Desire is making him quiver; Charles can probably feel it, the back of his free hand resting against Erik's stomach. Charles pants and pulls his fingers out of Erik's mouth, replacing them with his tongue. They kiss, tongues tangling and sliding together. Charles shifts on the bed, sliding his hips forward; his wet hand curls round Erik's cock and he breaks off kissing Charles with a gasp.

Charles takes himself in hand lightly, rubbing the shaft of his cock against Erik's, and he really can't help the jerk of his hips. Charles chuckles, low and dirty, and he wants to kiss him, but he needs to breathe; instead, he whines and gasps and pants into Charles' mouth, dizzy with the heady emotions pouring into him. Charles' hand closes round both of their cocks, making Erik thrust up hard and hiss, the sound caught by Charles' mouth.

Charles matches him thrust for thrust, writhing and arching up into the funnel made by both of Charles' hands. Erik nearly loses it completely when Charles' thumb rubs over the head of his cock; he feels too hot, as though his skin is going to melt off and all that he's been feeling will burst free.

And then, through the haze, Erik can feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine. Already he's past the point where he thought he might've come, barrelling headlong into some higher and previously unknown, unreachable, echelon of pleasure.

“Going to come!” he chokes out, hearing Charles' answering gasp only faintly, “me too!” Erik buries his face in Charles' neck; he can feel the point of Charles' chin digging into his shoulder. Their thrusts quicken and shorten, hips snapping upwards into the grip of Charles' hands. Erik's finger hasn't let up and Charles is shuddering now, losing some of his rhythm to thrust mindlessly against Erik.

Erik's orgasm slams into him, making him cry out, his whole body convulsing with the force of it. He grips Charles tighter, hips still thrusting, and he can feel the moment Charles comes with a wail, spine arching. Cum splatters everywhere; Charles is chanting Erik's name into the pillow; Erik is gasping and panting into Charles' skin.

After what feels like forever, their bodies begin to still, both of them still breathing hard. Erik loosens his grip on Charles but doesn't let him go; Charles lets go of their softening cocks and drapes one arm over Erik's waist, the other resting on the bed between their bodies. They slump into the bed and each other.

Erik rests his head on the pillow and studies Charles in the faint moonlight peeking into the room through the curtains; his face is flushed, his hair is damp and sticking to his head and neck, his lips are swollen. A little trickle of sweat escapes his hairline and runs down over his neck towards his collarbone; Erik doesn't know where he finds the energy to move, but he drops his head down to catch the little drop with his tongue. Charles shudders. Limbs loose and heavy, Erik sighs contentedly, brushing his nose over Charles'. “Are you alright?” he whispers; “yes,” Charles whispers back with a smile. 

Erik can feel Charles peeling his mind away from his own; he has been there the whole time, and the sudden prospect of the emptiness left behind when Charles leaves completely is not something Erik can bear. “Stay,” he croaks out. “Stay,  _please_ .” In answer, Charles' mind curls around his, warm and bright.

 _I will always stay if you **want** me to,_ is the wispy thought Charles sends him.

 _Always, want you always,_ Erik sends back.

Charles snuggles closer, shivering a little. “Are you sure you're alright?” Erik asks him again, solicitous in a way that he would be for no-one else. “Oh, Erik, that was.... that was....” Charles seems lost for words; Erik answers, “I know,” with a grin, before going on, “and you want me, truly?”

Charles nods and bites his lip, his eyes bright. Erik presses the point; “Even knowing what I am and what I've done?” Charles' answer floors him; “always, want you always,” his own words repeated back to him. Erik closes his eyes against the tears that have sprung up out of nowhere; he feels Charles' lips on his and kisses him back for a long moment. When he opens his eyes, Charles' face is graced with a beautiful smile.

“I think we should clean up, love,” Charles murmurs. “Yes, alright,” Erik says in reply, lifting his head off the pillow to look round for anything that will do. Charles nudges him; “here,” he says, motioning with his head, “I have something.” Erik lets go of Charles' arse to reach up behind himself, sliding his hand under the pillow as directed by Charles. He feels something like cloth and pulls it out; it's a handkerchief, he realises, as he gives it to Charles.

Charles wipes his hands clean before wiping the cloth over their stomachs and chests. It tickles, and Erik squirms; Charles does it again. “Stop that,” he huffs, the smile in his eyes undermining the tone of his voice. Charles chuckles, balls the handkerchief up and throws it over Erik to goodness knows where. He curls his body against Erik; Erik reaches down with his free hand and pulls the bedsheets loose from where they've tangled at their feet. He covers Charles first, and then himself.

The sweat on their bodies has cooled; the roaring lust has been sated temporarily; Erik feels almost unbearably content.

“I love you, you know,” Charles says quietly, not meeting his eye. Erik brushes his lips over Charles' forehead. “I love you too,” he murmurs. Charles' delight fills him, even as sleep wraps it's long-fingered tendrils round his consciousness. The only sound in the room now is the gentle brushing of leaves against the window, and their breathing, deep and slow. All is peaceful.

Erik sleeps.


End file.
